


denouement

by DrSchaf



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Halls of Mandos, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-31 20:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13982562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSchaf/pseuds/DrSchaf
Summary: Sleeping around a fire, huddling together for warmth, sharing furs and broths and streams to wash in; none of it should hold that much significance for him.





	denouement

**Author's Note:**

> For pocalda

“I'm allowed because I'm older.”

Kíli huffs, small fists clenched on his thighs.

Glancing up, Fíli sighs and carefully lies the tool in Kíli's lap. “Try it. I won't tell.”

“But if-”

“I'll sit in front of the door,” Fíli cuts in, scrambling the short distance to sit against the rough wood. “Go on now, before I change my mind.”

Kíli huffs again, a small sound without any heat behind it, then he pulls his lip between his teeth and frowns at the piece of wood in his hands. With nimble fingers, he gives it a trying poke and frowns some more.

Planning to be bored, Fíli looks around for something to occupy himself with, but for the lack of anything within immediate reach, he's drawn in by the only movement around and ends up watching Kíli's progress. Within minutes, his brother figures out how to peel the rougher bark from the smooth inside of the wood, and which each successful attempt, he sits a bit straighter.

“You can say it, I won't be angry.”

Fíli rolls his eyes. “I swear I saw you stomping your feet only minutes ago. That must've been my imagination, then.”

“I suppose your eyesight is bad.” Kíli bends over the wood, tongue peeking out between his lips. The branch snaps, and for a few seconds, they sit in silence.

Heart heavy from watching Kíli's face fall, Fíli scoots back over. “Try again,” he says, nudging his knee against Kíli's.

“No.”

“Kíli-”

“You will always be better,” Kíli presses out, “and I don't care for it anymore. This isn't fun anyway.”

The tool collides with the wall, leaving a slight dent before it clatters to the ground. Unlike the tools Thorin showed them in the forge, it's only a small knife. Woodcarving, he said while handing it to Fíli, is the first step on the very long ladder of creation.

He's old enough to get started, and weren't it for Kíli and his pouting face, he'd run around with his chest swollen with pride. As it is now, Fíli stands with a sigh and retrieves the tool. “I am better,” he starts, slow and with a glare. Kíli glares back, eyes narrowed in his round face. “Because I'm older and I've had more time to practice,” Fíli finishes, sitting back down and reaching for another twig.

The sun warms his toes, marking patterns on the floor with its low angle. Slowly, Fíli draws the tool over the bark and tries not to let his grin show as Kíli leans closer, watching the process while trying to appear like he isn't. “It won't matter for long,” Fíli says at length. “Someday, you will catch up and no one would know who's the older and who's the younger brother.”

Kíli looks at him like he said mother won't be home until the cold comes again. “But you will always be my older brother.”

“Of course I will,” Fíli says. “I'm only telling you our _age_ won't matter for long.”

“Mh.”

“You're barely twenty, but you will see. Give it a few decades, then no one will know.”

Kíli snickers. “You sound like Uncle.”

Very regally, Fíli inclines his head.

Kíli guffaws. There's a piece of bark in his hair, making him look stupid. Parts of trees as hair ornaments are for Elves, surely, not for dwarves.

“This dough won't knead itself!”

They share a dramatic sigh and scramble up to race each other to the door. Before Kíli can slip through, Fíli stops him by his sleeve and tries to get a hold of the bark in his hair. “Hold still, you Orcling. Mother will know if you go down looking like that.”

Kíli squirms in his grip, always twitching in at least three directions at once.

“There, done.” With a flick of his wrist, Fíli throws it back into their room. “After supper, we try again. When she's asleep.”

Kíli shrugs, shifty. “I suppose. I can't very well say no if you force me to do it, can I?” Following another call, he tramples down the shabby stairs.

Face warm, Fíli bustles after him.

*

The paper crumbles in Kíli's grip, then he swipes it from his desk and throws himself back in his chair. Fíli sits still until ink drips from his quill over his own runes. It pools in a splotch, ruining the work of hours.

“Fíli!” Kíli cries, much louder than reasonable as Balin could step back through the door at any moment. “Now you have to start all over!”

Heaving the sigh, Fíli shoves the useless paper to the side. “I suppose I must,” he says, huffing mildly as Kíli crosses his arms like a sulking dwarfling. “If you promise to sit still for once in your life, I will help you with the complicated ones.”

“I don't need help,” Kíli states.

“Then leave me to do my own.” It comes out sharper than he meant to. Fíli prepares for either a quill or an insult to come flying his way, but Kíli stays silent, vibrating on his chair with a sour expression.

“This time, you don't even have more practice than I do.”

“Me teaching you runes in the dead of the night does not count as practice,” Fíli points out, reaching for fresh paper to start anew. “Balin is a better teacher than I am, so I do have more practice. It's natural that...”

Kíli turns his sharp eyes on him, chin lifted in defiance. “Well, go on.”

“I'm better at it than you.” Fíli glares. “For the time being.”

Quiet, Kíli looks down at his lap. With his arms crossed, he looks young like he hasn't for years.

“It might have something to do with your refusal to sit on your backside for long enough to allow Balin to get his lessons across,” Fíli says, looking away to smother his grin when Kíli lets out an outraged noise. “Only an idea.”

Kíli sticks his tongue out, but the good-natured expression falls away soon enough, eyebrows dropping and the corners of his mouth dropping until his face looks weird and impassive. “I don't have to sit on my backside when Dwalin trains us.”

It's summer and a burning fire during the day hasn't been necessary for weeks. It adds to the silence, the lack of the ever-present snaps of twigs breaking and wood turning to ash.

Fíli looks at the blank sheet of paper in front of him and rolls his shoulders in the hope his concentration will set back in, but Kíli is right. There's much to do during Dwalin's lessons, but sitting still isn't one of those tasks, and Fíli can't bring himself to say it out loud. He can't do it, no matter how weird Kíli's face looks.

“I will not say it,” Fíli says at length, and to his relief, it sounds as final as he intended. Kíli griping about not writing pretty runes or carving clever figures is one thing; they don't matter to him. Fighting does, as it should, and agreeing he's being bested at this, Kíli won't take well. Even if he asks for it.

“But it's the truth.” Already drawn up to his height, Kíli's limbs remain lanky, not yet able to fill out his form. He looks like a twig with spiky odds and ends, nearly folding in half where he bends over a new sheet of paper.

It's for the best, Fíli decides, to make this disagreement about him. He slumps his shoulders. “I don't _want_ to be better.”

Kíli jerks upright.

“Best we get this done before Balin finds his way back,” Fíli says, and Kíli turns back to his runes with a huff.

They work in silence until Balin comes back, and as soon as reasonably possible, Fíli excuses himself from the current lesson, smoothly lying about Thorin requiring his assistance in the forge. He rarely lies, even less about important matters, so Balin agrees at once and turns his full attention on Kíli. The drawn-out sigh which follows makes him feel guilty for the next minutes, but with his goal in mind, Fíli makes haste and bursts into the smithy soon after, earning himself drawn eyebrows from Thorin and Dwalin alike.

They're sitting at the table with papers spread out between them. “Is there something you need?” Thorin asks, rounding him to close the door. In the background, Dwalin shoves the papers into a stack.

“Kíli isn't good with swords,” Fíli blurts out.

Dwalin snorts. “You don't say.”

“He will be,” Thorin says. “Dwalin will make it so, there is none he couldn't train-”

“No, that's not-” Fíli stops, cheeks hot. “I didn't mean to interrupt you.”

“Do us a favor and interrupt him on a regular basis. He gets unbearable otherwise.”

Thorin lowers his terrifying eyebrows. “Don't give the boy ideas,” he mutters, then he turns back to him while Dwalin throws a large grin in his direction. “What did you come here for?”

Fíli squares his shoulders and lifts his chin, and for good measure, he crosses his arms as well. “I want you to train Kíli with a different weapon. Something of his own choosing.” He clears his throat. “Something that isn't a sword.”

“Did you become an expert in weaponry when I wasn't looking?”

His heart beats wildly, but Fíli stands his ground. “I'm not an expert. I only see what is obvious: my brother needs another weapon.”

“What, a hammer?” Dwalin laughs. “An ax? Have you looked at the lad? He's thin as an Elf!” He shakes his head. “If he can't wield a proper sword, he won't be able to even lift a hammer, let alone swing it.”

It's the truth. He hasn't thought this through. A dwarf needs a proper weapon, they all do, and without strength— “Bow!” Fíli cries. “It's lighter! It requires training, but it would be something only he excels in.”

Dwalin laughs, specifically leaning back in his chair for it.

Thorin doesn't, but a small smile shows on his face. It's gone in a matter of seconds, but Fíli is very sure he saw it. “Like your mother. I remember her dueling our teacher... She wasn't allowed to train with her bow until she beat him with swords.” He crosses his arms. “She wouldn't have it, of course. One day, she brought her bow and tried to beat him in a competition to earn her right to train.”

“She never told me that,” Fíli says, unsure if this reveal furthers or hinders his plan.

Thorin snorts and covers it up with a cough. “Of course she didn't - she lost. Eventually, she was allowed to train with her bow if only so she would stop complaining about _not_ being allowed.” He smiles again, this time at his feet. “Dwalin?”

Dwalin sighs. “We don't have training bows, you know that. And it won't do the lad any good if he can't defend himself.”

“I will do it for him.”

They turn to look at him, matching frowns of disapproval on their faces. Thorin stands and ushers him toward the door, hand on the handle and heavy boots tapping a rhythm against the floorboards. He looks back at Dwalin. “A Man's bow will be too big. If he's able to make is own-”

“He's good at carving.”

“Do not interrupt me.” Thorin glares, opens the door, and grips his shoulder to maneuver him through. “If he crafts his own bow, I will find someone to train him. But he has to have basic skills with a sword regardless, a bow won't do good in every situation.” The door closes, and the last thing Fíli sees is Dwalin rolling his eyes, then he turns on the spot and rushes back to share the news.

*

He's named Heir the summer after Kíli weaves the proper Durin braids into his hair for the first time.

Trained under Mother's watchful eyes, it took Kíli months until he deemed the patterns good enough to be inspected by Balin and after that, by Uncle.

The braids fall heavy around his face, weighted down by clasps that lasted for generations, and weren't it for Kíli being the one putting them into his hair, Fíli admits he wouldn't care for them. Only in his mind, of course. Such matters are better left unsaid.

Still, he liked the childish braids better; simple woven strands which had to be redone every morning, a comforting ritual that left him sitting on the edge of his bed, Kíli's bony knees poking into his back and the fireplace in front of them roaring to life. He misses it, so much even, he finds his hands fiddling with the braids until they come undone far sooner than they should have, making Kíli believe he isn't as good at braiding as he thought he was, which then results in a few tantrums behind closed doors when neither Uncle nor Mother is within hearing range.

Fíli suspects he deserves it, especially when he can't bring himself to admit what he's doing, so he takes the stomping and complaining and sharpens his knives until soon enough, Kíli deflates and rudely uses him for balance when he climbs onto the bed.

Putting his knife aside, Fíli closes his eyes and lets the sensation of careful fingers carding through his hair wash over him. However angry Kíli is, he's never rough with him, always working with quick fingers to divide the strands and start a new braid.

“You have been quiet,” Kíli says, quiet.

“Have I?”

Kíli tugs at the unfinished braid. “You have. Tell me then, I'm sure it will only be worse if you keep holding it back.”

“What makes you think it's something I would want to hold back?” A log breaks and the fire blazes up, forcing him to look elsewhere. “Uncle spoke to me,” Fíli says, searching for the right words.

“He named you Heir.”

“Yes.” Fíli waits, heart thudding in his chest.

“He should have done it years ago.” Kíli sighs, reaching around to blindly feel for the beads Fíli cradles in his hand. “I suppose you do everything right.”

“Kíli-”

“I don't envy you, I don't want it for myself,” Kíli hurries out, breath flowing past Fíli's neck, stirring the beginnings of his beard. “It's just...”

“What?” Fíli prompts. There is no answer, but if this is about Kíli's silly idea of losing again, there can only be one answer anyway. “Do you know what I will do when I'm King?”

Kíli huffs. “King without a kingdom, you mean.”

“Yes, King without a kingdom. Do you know?”

“No.”

Fíli smiles, warmth spreading out from his heart both at Kíli's sullen tone and at his hands picking up their work again. “I will name you my adviser. My second in command. Or my general, to oversee the armies.”

“The nonexistent armies of your nonexistent kingdom.”

Fíli grins, nudging his head back against Kíli's fingers. “Yes, that's what I'm going to do.”

“People will think you favor me because I'm your brother.” He sounds tentative, terribly young from one moment to the next, and Fíli's grin falters.

Keeping his tone light, he forces on. “Well, I would,” he says. “Who else am I supposed to trust with my life? I plan to live to 300 at least, that won't work without—without someone to oversee matters,” he finishes, face burning from the sudden outburst of neediness. Mahal, he ought to be grown up by now.

“You would ruin the kingdom if I weren't there to make you laugh every once in a while,” Kíli points out. From the sound of it, he's grinning. “You can't ride a proper horse, and you can't braid your hair on your own or strap into that impractical thing you call a scabbard.”

Fíli grunts, butting his head back and colliding with something soft. “A dwarf isn't _supposed_ to braid his own hair.”

“You say that because the only time you tried doing it by yourself, you made Mother cry.” Kíli chortles and leans over to take the last bead from his fingers.

“She did not.”

“But almost.”

“You're an Orcling, I always knew.” His face hurts from grinning, and the flood of relief washing through him hasn't ebbed yet.

It's going to be all right, he thinks, watching on as Kíli flutters through the room without stopping to ramble. Maybe growing up can wait a bit longer. Only a little while longer and then, he promises, he will try to start imagining a life - with or without a kingdom - with Kíli only on the edges, not in the middle of it.

But not quite yet.

*

Kíli rages in silence.

It's worse than when he complains loud enough for their neighbors - Men, at that - to pound against the thin walls or when he sends flying whatever gets in his reach. This is the reaction Fíli feared when he struggled to tell him about being named Heir, and now he gets it nonetheless.

Weeks late, but he can't think of any other incident upsetting Kíli to such a degree.

“I tried,” Fíli says, laying out the words. “But I don't remember anything I did to make you this upset. You have to tell me.”

“I'm not upset.”

Blanket drawn around his shoulders, Fíli stares at the fire, shivering from where the cold sneaks through the gaps. He tries again, a different wording this time, “I apologize.” The plan was to go on, but he can't think of anything.

At least, it gets Kíli moving. He turns away from the drawer, eyebrows raised. “What for?”

Fíli shrugs. “Whatever I did,” he says, looking out of the tiny window. The leaves only now turned yellow and it's already so very cold, a sign for the winter to come. It will be harsh, and they ought to start preparing soon.

The mattress dips, nearly making him lose balance when Kíli plops down without any manners.

“It's nothing you did,” Kíli says. “I'm just in a bad temper, I suppose. I didn't mean to let it out on you.” The slope of his shoulders doesn't lessen, neither does the force with which he presses his lips together.

It's the old argument, the one most likely to drive a wedge between them.

“We have different talents.” Fíli waits, taking in Kíli's clenched jaw. He's right and they both know it. “Uncle said so, and Dwalin too. And Balin and Mother.”

“You spoke with all of them? At great length, I imagine?”

Fíli glares. “Not on purpose and not all at once—don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like an Orcling,” Fíli says, voice soft without his input. He clears his throat. “There is no competition, Kíli.”

Kíli scoots closer, warm against his side. “You say that because you win each of them.”

“I can't win something I don't compete for.”

“You are Heir-”

“And you are Prince in your own right!”

Kíli shakes his head, nostrils flared. “And you are better with swords. Two, even. You can't be average, no - you have to have a special talent for it. Your runes are better as well and Balin doesn't give you as hard a time-”

“Do you want to be Heir?” Fíli wiggles his hand free to grip the edge of Kíli's knee. It sticks out, there still isn't enough meat on him to count him as a proper dwarf. With his height, maybe there never will be.

The silence grows, settling uncomfortably, and Fíli barely remembers the last time they were at such odds. It seems that whatever he tries to sway Kíli's mind with, his brother has already laid out an argument for it.

“I don't want it if you're not on my side,” Fíli says eventually. “I did not ask for it. If you want it, we talk to Uncle. We talk to him at once.”

Kíli scoffs and looks away again, and Fíli misses his eyes immediately. “I don't want to be King,” Kíli says.

“Then what do you want? You must know I don't do any of it on purpose. It's not my intention to best you in anything.”

“Anything?” Kíli grins.

“Apart from my better looks, of course,” Fíli says and lets his braids swing over his shoulder. The blanket slips, leaving even more of him in the cold, and he couldn't care less now that Kíli is in the process of apologizing—in his own way.

“You look ridiculous.”

He's forced to make room so Kíli fits between his back and the wooden wall.

“Sit still,” Kíli commands, unnecessarily, and starts to rebraid his hair.

A thought nips at the back of his mind, making him squirm and Kíli tugging at his hair with a tut. It's a suspicion, a thing he can't grasp. “I'll always need you,” Fíli says, quiet and slow to give the suspicion room to grow. “You make it possible for me to look at the ground, because you look up and slay any danger coming from afar. If it weren't for you, they would be on me.”

Kíli finishes the braid, gently clasping a bead at the end, and starts another, close to his temple.

“Alone, I'm nothing,” Fíli says, and he thinks perhaps he shouldn't. His beard isn't even proper yet, let alone Kíli's faint scruff. It's too much pressure for one dwarf alone, and he will be King—but if he can't rely on his brother's strength, he might as well give up at once.

When Kíli finishes the last braid, he places his hand on his shoulder. Fíli rolls it, skin warm where Kíli's knees bracket his hips through the thick woolen blanket. The hand drops and Kíli sighs. “It's the other way around, brother.”

*

They're meant to stay for one season. The idea of going lifts a weight from Fíli's chest, making it so he can breathe instead of brooding over what he can't grasp until his head aches and he's no longer sure whether to trust his own mind or not.

The farewell consists of hugs and a huge basket of bread, both braided and sweet, and dried pork and apples and berries and cheese—it's so heavy, Fíli nearly topples over. Uncle casts his stern look towards Dís while his own brother forgets to pout and laughs at him instead. He was so disappointed that he wasn't allowed him to join them, Fíli feared he might stay angry with him forever - regardless of him having no say in their travel plans either. Uncle didn't ask, he said he was in need of assistance and that he was old enough to learn the ways of trade.

That was the end of it.

The woods around Ered Luin are familiar enough, but soon they leave behind all roads known to him and bed down under the stars as Uncle's usual brooding takes over after one shared story. The journey proves uneventful, and within days, Fíli's spirits turn dull; he longs to be in a town again. A specific one, but after three days with nothing but Uncle around, any settlement would do.

Mahal hears his prayers when the outskirts of a town come into view, and for the next few hours, Fíli is so eager, he pretends not to notice his heart hasn't lost as much weight as he thought it would at the sight bustling activity.

Above a small shop, Thorin shows him around their even smaller lodgings; a cot for each of them, a fireplace with enough space for exactly one pot, and a table with one chair. At least they're out of the wind and rain, and if he saves the coin he makes on the side, he can afford weekly letters to be sent home.

It helps against the first trace of homesickness washing over him, and writing of their days and progress keeps him from examining the longing too closely even as he has to lie on the ground like a dwarfling, paper carefully spread out on the floor before him.

He wonders how Kíli fares in his absence. Whether he's behaving or driving Mother to distraction, whether he finds sleep without him a mere foot away, whether he started on his new bow instead of putting it off for reasons he never quite understood.

After a fortnight, he knows more about trade, haggling, and Men than he ever cared to. As Thorin assigns him more responsibilities, he looks at him with proud, frowning eyes, and at night, Fíli still wonders what Kíli may be doing. It's an idle thought that drains his spirits more than it lifts them, but Fíli finds he can't do without the question. The worry, he tells himself, is only natural, and he doesn't feel like talking about it, be that on paper or in person. Kíli mustn't be burdened with thoughts like these, and the worry will surely leave as quickly as it came when Kíli's letter arrives.

If Mother allows him to spend the coin.

“You are quiet.” Thorin arranges a new chair at the table, patting the seat with a nod.

“I don't mean to-”

“Don't apologize.” Sitting, Thorin slices off a big chunk of cheese. “Tell me what troubles you. I know the process of learning the trade can be tiring, but there is no other way for you to learn than by observing.”

Face warm, Fíli sits and rubs his fingers over the edges in the wood before him. The chair is uncomfortable, a welcome distraction from the embarrassment creeping up his neck. “It's not that I'm bored,” he says, and then he doesn't know how to continue. “I don't mean to offend.”

Thorin places a wedge of cheese in front of him without offering any words in return.

Fíli squares his shoulders and looks up, finding that Thorin's expression isn't stern as he expected. He looks puzzled, and Fíli feels his own face begin to match his confusion. “What is it?”

Thorin shoves a piece of cheese in his mouth, face set like he has to concentrate very hard on chewing. “You talk, usually,” he says after a while, and then he reaches for the cheese again.

“I suppose, yes.” There is no answer. “Do you mean to imply I wouldn't talk now?”

“Do you?” Thorin swallows, leaning back in his chair with a pinched expression. “Talk.“

“I am now,” Fíli mutters, though he feels guilty immediately. Looking at the table, he tries to come up with an answer that won't displease his uncle, but he can't find anything without falling back on a lie. He does talk less, he knows. It's not a conscious decision, it's only—the dwarf he would want to talk to is elsewhere, and writing isn't the same.

He misses his brother, Kíli's constant presence at his back or side or even in front of him, blocking his view and being underfoot. It hasn't been long enough, he's not yet used to being separated from him, and there is no need to tell Uncle of his day; he's with him all the time. Kíli was too, and still—still.

*

Halfway through their travels, Uncle buys him a pony.

He doesn't allow objections or offers an explanation as to why he won't need his help any longer, only that Fíli is to sell it as soon as he arrives back home and to store the gold for his own return. Fíli is ridden with shame, almost refusing the order, but Uncle insists, sternly, repeating that he can do the rest of the negotiations by himself and that frankly, he'd get in the way.

It's good enough, and soon enough as well, Kíli crushes him into a hug so fierce Fíli worries about his ribs.

Kíli smells like home, like cold winters and open fires, like wooden walls his dwarven blood longs to replace with stone. Nothing is different about him, their mother or their house, and while Fíli reassures her he's glad to be back—it's not the place he missed. Ered Luin, Mother and her honeyed cakes, the fisher next door, the women at the stream chattering while washing clothes with deft hands: home.

It's not what he missed.

Hungry and in dire need of a bath, Fíli is made to sit and eat while Kíli heats up water, words falling from his mouth so quickly Fíli has trouble keeping up. His brother seems set on sharing every detail of his life he missed, and something about it stings in his chest, sudden and expected.

By the time Kíli's stream of words comes to an end, he vibrates on his chair, boundless energy leaving him breathless. Fíli finishes his plate, ready to peel off the many layers of his clothing before he spots his mother in the doorway.

She wears the same look Thorin did, and the sting in Fíli's chest makes room for a deep throb of humiliation. She sees something, they all do, and he can't _grasp_ it.

Maybe because he shouldn't. It's not for him to know, he reasons while soaking in the hot water, Kíli's chattering a distant mumble for once—to his relief. Best Kíli talks at their mother for as long as this revelation takes.

But when his eyes fall shut and he's almost too tired to climb out of the water, he's no closer to uncovering whatever it is that puts these looks in the eyes of his closest relatives. He's not even halfway to uncovering it, as he hadn't made it halfway through being away from home.

It's time, Fíli decides, to grow up for good.

As soon as he's dried and dressed, Kíli manifests into their room, stands shiftily, and rushes outside again. Before Fíli can make sense of it, Kíli bustles back inside.

“Look,” he says, oddly shy. “I think I'm finally on my way to get it right.”

Staring at the arrows, Fíli reaches out to brush his fingers over the smooth shafts. “You made them?”

“Yes.”

The tips are sharp-edged, deadly. “They look perfect,” Fíli says, testing their strength by slightly bending them to each side. “You're very talented.”

Kíli scoffs.

The tool is bigger now, but the principle is the same. In his absence, however short it was, Kíli found something he excels in, something to best him in just like he did with his bow.

Kíli clings to his elbow, fingers curled around the bone like he believes he will disappear into the air if he stops holding on, and something is lodged in Fíli's throat.

“You make me better,” he chokes out, completely without sense. The thing in his throat makes it so he can't breathe, and he wasn't gone for long, certainly not long enough for Kíli to have grown up, to cut the cord and become independent. To gape at him from the side, confusion written all over his face as if Fíli had been away for years instead of weeks, as if Kíli found some vital part in himself, one he could only find with him being elsewhere.

Fíli sways on the spot, eyelids heavy, and then he's on his bed, suddenly, and Kíli's fingers leave, taking their warmth with him and leaving Fíli cold despite the hot bath he had mere minutes ago.

In the morning, no one wakes him.

When Fíli opens his eyes, the bed next to his is deserted, covers messily thrown over it. A lumpy pillow lies on the floor, a discarded tunic hangs from the post. It's Kíli.

It's what he missed.

On the wooden stand beside the bed stands a plate with honey bread. Without leaving his warm cave, Fíli reaches over, breaks off a peace, and shoves it into his mouth. The taste of home washes over him, filling his chest back up until he's ready to look at the small trinkets next to the plate.

Wooden carvings, detailed and delicate, made by sure hands. Made for hours, if not longer. Craft takes time, Balin's voice appears in his head. Craft takes time, and that's why we live longer than Men. It wouldn't do to die as half-children like they do.

Feeling for the edges, Fíli strokes his fingers over the smooth wood as he did with the arrows, noticing the similarities in the technique. It's Kíli's work, of course it is.

They look like tiny crowns.

*

“I told you no one would know a few decades later.”

Two days out of the Shire, their newfound sense of adventure has yet to wear off. They're still fairly clean, their bellies are full, and watching the others bicker around the fire is almost entertaining enough Fíli forgets what awaits them at the end of their journey. For now, he shoves the thought aside; they have a long way to ride, there will be plenty of time to prepare the mind for battle.

“I still don't have a beard,” Kíli grumbles, but he grins all the same, bumping their shoulders with a look that says he knows what Fíli meant by it. Unlikely, but maybe Kíli's memory isn't as bad as he likes to pretend.

“It will come.”

Kíli shrugs, fiddling with the string of his bow. “I might have to cut it, you know? Keep it trimmed like Uncle does so it won't get in the way of the bow.”

“You already have designs on your mind? A certain fashion?” Fíli grins, though he manages to hold back his chuckle. They're in the company of elders, after all.

“Maybe.” Kíli laughs. “Would you fault me for it? I've been waiting for my beard to grow for—I don't even remember. Half a century, almost!”

“Don't be foolish, you were dwarfling back then.”

Beside him, Dwalin snorts and lifts himself from the log with a shake of his head. They grin after him, then Kíli goes back to his bow for some complicated adjustments Fíli has no interest in, so he lets his eyes wander, taking in the company chattering among themselves; brothers with brothers with cousins with distant cousins. Thorin to the side, head bowed in a hushed conversation with Gandalf while Dwalin keeps a sharp eye on them both. Bombur belching, Bofur laughing, Bifur muttering.

“At least you're a proper dwarf,” Kíli says so at length, it takes Fíli a moment to connect the words to their conversation, and then he has the sense to frown when he sees the glint in Kíli's eyes. “We should braid it.”

“It? Oh-”

Fingers reach for his beard and start combing through at once.

“Braid it,” Fíli repeats, feeling blood rush into his cheeks when Kíli tugs until a small knot comes loose. Apparently, his brother takes it as an agreement.

Kíli shoves and prods until Fíli is facing the fire and there's enough room for Kíli to crouch between his knees. “We will meet a Hobbit, right?” Kíli says. “Which means we will travel through—whatever it is they call the place Hobbits live.”

“Hobbiton.”

“Very creative.” Kíli grins, teeth white even with the fire at his back. “Either way, we will travel through places entirely without dwarves, and that makes example-dwarves.”

“Is that so.” He's flustered, weirdly so, and every moment now, Kíli will notice the troubling warmth settling in his belly from a harmless touch to his facial hair. This isn't, by all means, the first time, but Kíli never did it with intent. With the single-minded focus he usually reserves for lining up an arrow.

In the background, the others chatter away, unaware of his strange thoughts—except for Balin, whose eyebrows reach up to his hairline. For a moment, Fíli stares at him.

“Most likely, the poor people we will come across haven't seen a single dwarf in their lifetime. Imagine that!” Kíli shakes his head, eyes big like he's indeed trying to imagine such a fate. He's completely unaware of Balin's expression behind him, and something loosens in Fíli's chest, making him rush out a breath that doesn't fit the context of their conversation. “We have to look the part.” Kíli clears his throat and lowers his voice, brow creased in concentration. “And by 'we' I mean you.”

It's not supposed to sound so soft, Fíli can tell. It's an accident, and his heart is heavy. “I can braid your hair as well,” he offers, unsurprised when Kíli shakes his head.

“I wouldn't look proper anyway, you know that. Best spare us both the pain of keeping me seated for an entire hour.” He grins, and this close, it looks a bit shaky.

“You _are_ a dwarf,” Fíli states, firmly keeping his eyes on his brother to ignore Balin. “There's nothing undwarven about you. How could there be?”

Staying silent, Kíli separates two strands from his beard. Every now and then, the calloused tips of his fingers brush over Fíli's lips, purely on accident, and Fíli breathes through his mouth, trying to focus on the conversations around him. When he squints down, he sees Kíli braiding his beard into two strands, each next to his mouth.

The warmth seeps deeper, unsettling, making his voice rough. “Is that practical?”

“I-” Kíli looks up and blinks, then he grins. “I have no idea. We can always change them if they get in the way. They do look fancy, though.”

Balin's eyebrows aren't high on his forehead any longer, they're hanging low over his eyes. The stare isn't a good one, there are only a handful of times Fíli recalls it being directed his way, and most of it involved dozing off in particularly boring sessions about history.

Gently, he makes to pry Kíli's fingers away, but Kíli leans back in the same moment, a big smile on his face.

“There, all done,” he proclaims, pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin. He waits for his approval, Fíli realizes, jittery all over with the attention focused on him - despite the fact that Kíli's attention is almost always focused on him. Though Balin's isn't, and that has to be the reason he feels so unsettled now.

“I will need beads,” he says after inspecting the braids under Kíli's proud eyes. Bombur belches again, making the camp roar with laughter and disapproval at the same time, and then Balin stands before them. In his hand, he holds two small beads as if he was able to listen to their conversation despite sitting on the other side of the camp.

Outright impossible, no one could have, save for an Elf.

Without words, Balin holds out the beads. To him, not Kíli.

Fíli takes them, inclining his head and watching on as Balin walks back to the others.

“Well, put them in!” Kíli scrambles up, unaware of everything around him, and sits back next to him. A moment later, he starts to recite some tale or the other while Fíli works in the beads and pretends he can't see Balin watching him out of the corners of his eyes.

*

Kíli didn't take his hand. On the mountain, Kíli froze and didn't take his hand, and he loves the She-Elf.

There's half of something missing he didn't know was whole. It hurts all over, everywhere, as if his skin is too tight and too hot at the same time, stomach rebelling against the questionable food Bard provides them with, eyes stinging with the—fog wafting through the city, perpetual and thick. Yes, that has to be it.

Something is wrong with him, and he can't look at Kíli, at his own brother, despite Orcs and Elves and magic and Uncle on his way to the mountain, to Erebor, _home_.

“Don't pull a face, lad,” Oín says. “He may look weak yet, but we'll get him up on his feet in no time, you'll see.”

It was a lie, such an utter lie which Kíli believed in. Being better at everything, the greatest lie ever told.

What he can't do: walk in starlight. He doesn't want to, he has no care for it. And he shouldn't want to in the first place. Kíli is free to give his heart to whomever he pleases, and if that person walks in starlight, so be it.

He is a dwarf. His feet are firmly planted on the ground, on the stone beneath him. As they should. Starlight is for Elves, and Kíli is a lot of things, with his lean built, his lack of beard, and his talent for shooting the bow, but he is a dwarf as well, he always will be, and he shouldn't long for starlight.

The Elven prince seems to share his concerns, that's the only solace given to him.

*

Erebor.

Something glints in Uncle's eyes, something old. It tugs at his heart, sharp like the claws on a Goblin's hand. The treasure is so vast, he wishes he never knew of its existence. No wonder it called the attention of a dragon; it's too much, he thinks, mind drifting back hours ago, to another treasure. It wasn't Kíli's to give away, no matter his intentions. Mother made the rune stones as gifts for her children, for them, for protection, as a reminder to come home. In the hand of an Elf, they lose meaning.

It's ill luck.

Kíli shouldn't have done it.

And they shouldn't be here. He feels it, deep inside his bones. They don't belong, this is a snake's nest, defiled and cursed.

Bofur slides up to him, a grin on his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Where's your swagger, eh?” He grins again, but he looks concerned without even taking in the mountains of gold around them. He looks at him—and didn't he see similar looks before? On both Mother and Uncle, so long ago he barely recalls the memory.

“It's nothing,” Fíli says, letting his eyes wander over the scattered company, each of them sifting through heaps and loads of treasure to find the biggest one. Bilbo stands in the middle of it, wiping his enormous feet with a handkerchief and a forlorn expression on his face. It's best to focus on that, Fíli thinks, swallowing so he doesn't have to think about a different time, a time where such a comment from Bofur would've raised his hackles, and rightly so.

He was a proud dwarf, too proud some said, but he is Heir and it's his training.

It's gone now, lost along the way without him noticing. Another piece of him leaving without being given the chance to hold onto it.

“We made it, we got that mountain of yours back,” Bofur says as Balin steps up to them, chin lowered and eyes strict even when he squeezes Fíli's shoulder. “Why're you pulling a face now?”

“I'm not pulling a face,” Fíli points out, trying to look at both of them at the same time.

“He's occupied with finding the Arkenstone. Isn't that right, laddie?”

Whatever is wrong with him, Balin knows.

The thought twitches life back into his fingers and toes, shoulders straight and chin up, feet planted on the stone, set apart. That's better. “Yes, I wonder if we will ever find it.”

“Oh, we'll find it, don't you worry,” Bofur says. “And if not, I'm sure Thorin will find a way to set himself on that throne of his anyway. I don't think anyone or anything could make him give it up now.” He grins, pulling at his own hair.

Smiling for Bofur's sake, Fíli nods and politely retreats to join the others. His feet carry him closer to his brother, as always, taking in the distant look in Kíli's eyes, how his fingers dance over a pile of gold. From afar, it looks like he's searching for the precious stone.

He isn't. He grieves.

When Fíli sits down beside him, it goes without notice.

In silence, they sift through a heap, fairly unfocused and no one within sight to judge them for it. The air smells heavy, like copper, like the infection still not chased away from his brother's leg, like foreign clothes and foreign food and only then, underneath all these countless layers, it smells like them.

Without meaning to, Fíli grieves with him, but not for a love that walks in starlight, only for a simpler time. Back home in their shared room, two small beds pushed together and only a few years before shoved apart again. At night, he missed Kíli's closer presence until the day they left. Sleeping around a fire, huddling together for warmth, sharing furs and broths and streams to wash in; none of it should hold that much significance for him.

If it weren't so, he would grieve with his brother for a love that most likely cannot be. He would be sad for Kíli, for his strong and good brother, for him to give his heart away without much chance of seeing it returned.

He would do all that, and he wouldn't be sad for himself.

*

It's madness, plain and simple, and Fíli doesn't dare say anything.

Kíli does, angry and loud, face still pale with sickness and yet so very handsome.

His heart bursts along with something in his head, and there isn't enough air to breathe. He has to leave at once, thoughts of glistening eyes on his mind, reflecting gold in a too bright manner, of poor Bilbo dangling over an abyss of stone, of—

He turns away to walk to the armory, pretending to get ready for battle. A moment later, he's being pulled around a corner, the hand as familiar as his own. Kíli breathes hard and drags him until they're out of sight in an as much secluded place as there is in these vast, crumbling halls. When they come to a stop, Fíli takes a breath and opens his mouth, but he can't think of anything to say that makes him sound saner than he feels.

On the stone bench beside them, their armor is already laid out in preparation. In case someone would be brave enough to go against the King's wishes - and of course that would be Kíli.

He's been trained all his life, and it's still his brother who holds it all together.

Unusual for him, Kíli lets himself be strapped into armor much older than they are without making a fuss. It will hold off the worst, Fíli hopes, unable to look up in Kíli's face as he fumbles with straps that aren't even in need of oil. Dwarven craft, enduring.

“You're upset,” Kíli says into the quiet between them.

In the distance, the sounds of battle echo back from the empty stone. Clashing, screaming, roaring, commanding.

Fíli swallows, matching his quiet tone. “You will have to be careful,” he says, fastening the last strap around Kíli's side before has to step back, but then he can't bring himself to move.

“You were upset before the battle began.” It's still soft, but there's an edge to it, ripping at his frayed heart. Fíli steps back, finally, only to endure Kíli helping him into his own armor. “We do as we practiced,” Kíli says as he reaches for his tunic.

Fairly capable of undressing himself, Fíli twitches, not brave enough to complain. Shame rises in his cheeks, flooding them with warmth, with thoughts he would never allow under normal circumstances.

Kíli goes on, unaware, “You will make your stand, feet on the ground, and I will stand beside you, eyes on the distance.”

“Yes.”

“As we do best. Together.”

The armor is heavy, pushing down on his shoulders and arms. In this, he will tire soon, but there's no point in saying it. Kíli nods once, then he rounds him to start on his braids as if the correct fashion will be important if they go to their deaths.

“You have to promise not to do anything foolish.”

“Me?” Fíli grins, wobbly because Kíli is behind him and he won't see. “I should say that to you.”

Kíli sighs. “Probably.” With every breath, he stirs his loose hair. Too close, way too close when he's in need to focus on the upcoming battle. “But you will be aware of your own dangers, brother. I won't have you get careless because you think I cannot hold my own.”

“I wouldn't,” Fíli says and knows it's a lie.

Kíli does, too. He rounds him to redo the braids in his mustache.

They didn't unravel, they're perfectly fine.

“After we won,” Kíli says. He doesn't say anything else for a while.

Fíli lets his eyes roam over the face he's known for almost all his life. He hasn't had his fill yet, there's still so much to see despite the familiarity, and his breath catches in his throat.

This close, Kíli notices at once. “After we won,” he says again, “I want to speak with you. Now isn't the time, there hasn't been enough time for anything lately, but there's something I meant to say for a while and...” He sighs. It flows over Fíli's face, smelling of the meager rations they shoved into their pockets before fleeing Laketown.

The noise of battle fades, making room for his own heartbeat as Kíli reaches out and presses their foreheads together. Hands buried in his hair, Kíli swallows, breathing unevenly. He will want to start courting the She-Elf once this is over. Perhaps he is scared for his life, of losing the opportunity.

If there is only one love, and Fíli knows and knew even when he didn't want to, then he wouldn't want his heart to long for anyone other than his brother. Looming battle, gold-sickness, and Bilbo out in the wild - it doesn't matter. Stone is firm beneath his feet, armor lies heavy around his shoulders, and his swords are sharp at his sides.

Kíli tugs at his hair, swaying him. Their noses bump. “Fíli,” he whispers.

This is familiar, easier to handle than a conversation that can wait until there's peace. Comforting Kíli has always felt natural, so Fíli smiles and grips his shoulders, heart whole because he knows now, and because this is how it should be; easing the burden, giving comfort. It's what love is about, Fíli thinks, closing his eyes for a brief moment, and he will do so for as long as he can.

But first, they must win.

Smiling again, Fíli steps back. “Let's go to battle.”

*

It's a trap. He knows, and then it ends and Kíli has to see.

*

All around him: stone so ancient it should crumble beneath his heavy boots. It doesn't, there's a faint thud when Fíli takes a step, just as there should be, but it's not completely right. There's an echo from walls he cannot see and the deep, rumbling noises of dwarves all around him without their bodies in immediate reach.

The sensation of falling is fresh in his mind, making him flinch away from the ground despite the disappearing pain. The blade hurt, badly so, but he lost his hearing by the time he fell and his vision right before he hit the ground. It only left the faint rush of air around him, cold against his face, pulling at his hair. There was no more pain, but the memory makes him uneasy nonetheless, so Fíli sits down, draws up his knees, and takes a deep breath.

“You had to best me even in the end, didn't you?”

No.

_No._

Kíli grins.

A deep horror clouds his thoughts, and for a moment, the pain in his heart is so terrible he doesn't know how to go on existing. Fíli clutches at his chest, words caught in his throat until he can think again and see again.

This is the end. They lived until the end and this is the after, and Kíli is clad in leather instead of the armor he strapped him in. There are no dangers in the Halls of Waiting, no need for weapons and armors, but even through the smile on his face, the memory of death is clear in Kíli's eyes. A haunting shadow, aging him.

“I tried,” Kíli says.

Fíli stares, hands shaking and mind shaking as he replays Kíli's words. “Did you say I _bested_ you?” he cries belatedly. “Are you saying you made a race out of death?” He stands, stomping closer on weak legs. “You should be glad I won! I should have won by centuries!”

“Fíli.”

“There was no competition, why won't you understand that?” Fíli hisses. “You were supposed to live!” To age, to marry, to see children grow up in his image. To at least try, even if it had been with the She-Elf.

“Fíli,” Kíli says again.

They're chest to chest, and Fíli wants to grip his shoulders, but he's afraid his hands will rush through like his brother is made out of smoke. None of this is supposed to happen. “How long has it been for you? How much effort did you put up? This forsaken idea of losing-”

“I tried,” Kíli cuts in. “Fíli. Brother, I tried.” He looks at his feet, voice low. “Maybe it didn't mean as much.”

No.

A sound builds up in his chest, threatening to break through. “This is wrong,” Fíli croaks. “You're not supposed to be here, not yet. Not at all.” He swallows, and somehow, tears are spilling over without him being aware he cried. “Maybe this isn't real.”

Kíli crowds in, hands rough when he knocks their foreheads together. “I'm upsetting you.” He smells like honey. “That's not my intention.”

The stone isn't right and Kíli shouldn't smell like honey and he shouldn't reach for his mustache, let alone tug at it. He smells like home while they haven't been home in forever.

The fingers wander, and Fíli opens his mouth, vision blurring as Kíli's thumb follows the movement. It's on his lips, parting them with barely any pressure. “Kíli,” he breathes against the finger, blinking to make the tears disappear.

Maybe he won after all. Maybe he won a contest he didn't know he was competing for—a contest he wasn't allowed to compete for, and now he won regardless, because this isn't real. This love isn't shared. Kíli isn't shy, he wouldn't have sat on a feeling like this without telling him about it.

This is his reward, his own.

Kíli's lips push against his. They're damp, leaving an imprint. Kíli licks them, a glimpse of red between his lips before it hides away again. “Does this convince you?” he whispers, crowding in with his chest and legs and lips until there's no space left between them.

“No,” Fíli says. When he opens his eyes, they're in a room with a fireplace and a shabby, wooden door. Twin beds, pushed together, stand beside a simple drawer with a candle on top of it. Kíli wears the clothes their mother sew. Old, worn garments with comfortable boots, no more armor, no more leather.

Outside, it's snowing.

“I wish you had told me.” Kíli draws back to look at him, eyes dark and sincere. “I wish you had seen.”

No one lies dying for this long, this can't be the last attempt of his mind to make up scenarios Fíli never even dared to think of. He's warm all over, longing to touch and learn and feel with a fire he knows only out of stories. He swallows thickly, leaning in for another kiss.

“I braided your hair for so long,” Kíli whispers. “I gifted you presents from my best craft. I would have made the beads for these braids as well, and clasped them on you.” Kíli tugs at his beard, the movement somehow urgent.

His head flows, it's too much. “Starlight,” he says, small like he hasn't felt in decades.

This is a memory, isn't it? A memory he wishes he had.

Kíli sighs and slides his hands under his tunic, brushing over his sides, warm and rough. “She saw me.”

“I saw you,” Fíli croaks, pressing closer. “I thought I did, but now I do, I promise.”

There is no snow in the Halls of Waiting. It's a memory that never happened. If he looked, Fíli knows he would find tiny crowns on the table, frozen in time. This is home, and it's for him alone, and if he gets this while Kíli is out there, allowed to find love, grow old, and become King, he can't see a fault in it.

He smiles and kisses Kíli again, the taste of honey on his lips. “I'm convinced now.”

“You are?” Kíli smiles back, young again, carefree.

“I am. Now let me see all of you, brother.”

“Love.”

“Let me see you, love,” Fíli whispers, and as Kíli allows it, he forgets everything else he knew about battles and cries and deaths and stone that isn't stone, but with an echo, sounding like wood.


End file.
